Provisional
by pr0nz69
Summary: Kiran's getting sick and tired of Alfonse not pulling his weight.


Written by pr0nz69 the younger.

Just something I wrote inspired by all the Alfonse-bashing on Reddit. I wanted to see what sociopathic!Kiran looked like since no one ever said self-insert player characters had to be nice.

* * *

Kiran finds Alfonse in the infirmary where he looks like his pride is hurting more than his wounds. He's up and walking, at least- _pacing_ -and that's what really gets Kiran, the levity of it all. At least stay in bed if you're hurt, is what he wants to say.

He doesn't say it, though. He smiles instead when Alfonse notices him. "How're you feeling?"

Alfonse looks down at his bare feet-well, mostly bare. He has coils of bandages around them, around his ankles, around his throat; Kiran wants to pull them till they're taut-no, _tight_. "Better, now. Thank you for checking up on me."

"What are friends for?" Kiran clasps his hands behind his back, bounces on his heels restlessly. "Glad you're not as beat up as we all thought." There's just a little sting there, like a bumble bee-a quick jab before it falls away and dies.

"I-yes, I'm fine," Alfonse says with just the right amount of discomfort. It makes Kiran just a little bit giddy.

"Well, that aside…" He stops bouncing, unclasps his hands. His face sobers. Alfonse notices, and it puts him on edge, jaw set. "Look, I don't want to make a big thing of it, especially when you're still recovering."

He lets that linger in the air like something noxious, something deadly. Alfonse struggles to meet his eyes now, and it almost makes him laugh. "Well," he adds, "you _are_ a prince, and I'm just your tactician. I wouldn't want to appear untoward-"

"Kiran," Alfonse interrupts. "As my friend and advisor, please, speak plainly with me."

If Kiran had wanted even the pretense of permission, that would have sufficed.

"Then, don't take this personally, Al"-he watches as Alfonse's bottom lip twitches-he hates being called Al, something to do with that boyfriend or whatever that left him-"but what the _hell_ were you doing out there today?"

He's expecting _some_ recoil, but Alfonse looks as if he's been struck.

"Kiran-I-I apologize, I-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's fine and all, really," Kiran says over him, "but apologies don't win battles, and they certainly don't revive fallen comrades." He draws Breidablik from within the folds of his robe, caresses the trigger with his index finger, then levels the weapon at Alfonse. The dolt probably can't even understand the significance of the action, he thinks, but Alfonse tenses at once.

"Only I can bring them back." Kiran mimes pulling the trigger. "And it hurts, you know, and saps a lot of my energy to do it." It doesn't, really; it's an inconvenience more than anything.

"I-I know-I'm sorry, Kiran, truly-"

"Tell that to Nino."

Alfonse freezes. His eyes are wide like a deer's before it's struck and killed.

"You let her die today. _You_ were supposed to protect _her_ from that swordsman, not the other way around."

Alfonse staggers to the side, catches himself on the medicine cabinet there. "Gods," he whispers, holding to the structure, desperate to keep himself steady on quaking legs. "Oh, gods, forgive me." His knees buckle, and he slips to the floor. Kiran watches for a moment, impassive. Then he kneels beside him.

"Hey, now, don't cry."

Alfonse lifts his head, moves like he's going to pull it back, but Kiran captures a lock of his hair and holds it, forcing him to stay where he is. Alfonse's eyes dart to the side, but he doesn't move, doesn't dare to.

"I know you didn't mean to." Kiran slides his thumb over the strands, silky-smooth. "But that's what happened. Nino died today on your watch. _Protecting you_. Don't you think you ought to take responsibility?"

"Yes," Alfonse says at once. "Yes, yes, of course! I-what can I do?"

"Hm." Kiran gives a light tug on his hair, canting his head to the side. "First, you'll need to ask for her forgiveness." Alfonse nods as vigorously as he can with his head partially immobilized. "But you have to remember, this isn't the first time this has happened. How many times do you think Nino is willing to forgive you? How about the others? How many times do they have to experience the pain of death before they're well and truly sick of you?"

Alfonse feverishly mumbles something about forgiveness again, but Kiran ignores him, revels in the thrill of power that pulses through him, electrifying him. "You can't die," he reminds him. "I won't be able to bring _you_ back. Sharena or Anna, either-not as you all are, at least. But they're not the ones with the problem."

He rewinds his fingers through Alfonse's hair, getting a solid grip on it, and with his free hand, he seizes his chin and thrusts his head back, baring his throat. Alfonse draws a quick, startled breath, fighting him a little before catching himself and stilling, though his Adam's apple shudders beneath his bandages. Kiran wants to press his thumbs into it to see what might happen. He doesn't, though, just leans in closer till their cheeks nearly touch.

"Maybe," he murmurs against his ear, "if you experienced the pain of death yourself, then _you_ wouldn't have a problem, either."

Alfonse makes a noise in his throat, partway between a moan and a sob. His hands are trembling, but he doesn't raise them to push Kiran off. A dog, Kiran thinks. He's just a stupid little kicked dog. Even though he tries to act aloof and detached, a little shallow trust is all it takes to reduce him to this ugly, sniveling mess.

Another push, Kiran decides. He can take another push.

Without letting go of his hair, Kiran stands. Alfonse makes to rise with him, but Kiran's foot on his knee keeps him where he is. "Stay down." Amusingly, he does, looking up with red-rimmed eyes, head still awkwardly cocked. Kiran tightens his grip, pulls harder but makes it appear natural, unintentional, like he hasn't really even noticed it himself. Alfonse winces, but still, he does nothing to object. It's almost like he _wants_ to be used by him, abused by him. Kiran restrains a smile.

"Obviously, none of us are going to kill you," he says. "And it's not like we want to see you hurt, either."

"I think-I would deserve it," Alfonse mutters, and Kiran wonders how much he means it, how organic a thought it actually is.

"You know I'd do anything to help you," he says, voice low, conspiratorial-not a push this time but a shove. "Nobody would have to know-not Sharena or Anna or even Nino. It could be a secret between the two of us. A good, cathartic secret."

Alfonse's eyes defog a little at that, and his lips crease slightly into a frown. "I-I'm not sure I-"

"Don't worry," Kiran interrupts. "It's really no trouble at all. As I said, I'm always happy to help out a good friend."

Alfonse opens his mouth like he's going to call him on hijacking his remark, twisting his intentions, but after a moment of gaping like some idiot fish, he appears to decide better of it and closes it again. His face is even paler than before, though, his eyes alight with some kind of unspoken anxiety. Kiran has to wonder at how someone this spineless even pretends at leading a kingdom.

"Alright," he says after a pause, "stand up. We'll do this nice and quick, just like on the battlefield."

He releases his grip on his hair and moves his foot, bending to take him by the wrists and help him up because like hell he's going to hold his hands. Alfonse still looks unsteady, supporting himself with one arm on the cabinet until Kiran sheds his cloak-the one they gave him when he first got here, the one meant for the legendary summoner-and throws it around his shoulders.

"Kiran?"

"Here." Kiran nudges Alfonse's arms to his sides and fastens the cloak around him. Then he pulls the empty sleeves across his chest and ties them there. "Gotta make sure you stay still for this so you don't _really_ get hurt, okay?"

Alfonse doesn't respond. He looks so small under the cloak, eyes empty again save for a glint of candlelight. Kiran stares him down. God, he's so annoying and helpless. At least Anna and Sharena are cute. Kiran can put up with that for cute. Alfonse isn't cute, he's just pathetic.

"Do you know how Nino died?" he asks him at last, not bothering to inject even a note of compassion into his voice. What's the sense now?

Alfonse shakes his head no, squeezing his eyes shut. Kiran says, "That swordsman punctured her lung. But that isn't what killed her. She died of asphyxia while choking on her own blood."

He doesn't give him a chance to react to that, just lunges forward and smashes him across the jaw with his fist. Alfonse stumbles back but miraculously remains standing until Kiran rushes him again, this time landing a blow to the cheek. Alfonse hits the cabinet behind him, sags against it. His mouth is bleeding from the corner, and that's where Kiran targets next.

"You incompetent _moron_!" He punches him again, then again. "What the _hell_ were you thinking out there? We almost lost the goddamn battle because of your shitty performance! Is this a game to you?" The irony of it is delicious.

"N-no," Alfonse croaks. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Oh my god, just shut _up_!" Kiran claps his hands over his own ears, grits his teeth. "Do you _ever_ stop talking? Just shut up and _listen_ for once, alright?"

Alfonse instantly clams up, and Kiran takes hold of his hood, drags him back across the room to a chair, which he thrusts him into. "Do you know why I'm annoyed?" he demands. Alfonse stares up at him, eyes glazed over like frost on glass. "We have a finite amount of resources. All those hero feathers I used to make you stronger? Wasted. All the heroes I sac-sent home so they could pass their skills along to you? What was the point if you can't even _use_ them properly?"

Alfonse opens his mouth as if to respond, but no words come out, just another trickle of blood from his split lip.

"If you can, at least understand one thing- _one thing_ , Alfonse, and it's not difficult, so even _you_ should get it. You're only"-here Kiran pauses, searching for an adequate word-"you're _provisional_. I wouldn't send you into combat if I didn't have to. But sometimes, I _do_ have to. It doesn't matter why-you wouldn't understand anyway. But there are times when I need you to at least _not screw up_ , and you _still_ let me down. And people get _killed_ because of it. Nino got killed today!"

Struck by a sudden impulse, he lowers himself over him, straddles him, slips his hands around his throat.

"Why don't you let me show you," he breathes, heart racing with unfiltered adrenaline, "exactly how she died?"

He's never had this kind of power over anyone. It's _exhilarating_. And it's okay because it's not real, none of it's real-Alfonse's bulging eyes; the frantic, clawing way he tries to free his hands from the cloak; the heat of his neck beneath Kiran's fingers. If he kills him, it would be an accident, but it might even make things easier. No more forfeited battles, no more wasted resources, no more gloomy tailgating around the castle when Kiran just wants to sleep but the fool's incessant anxiety is keeping him up. A little longer-if he keeps on for a little longer, then-

Alfonse lurches wildly back in one final bid for oxygen, and the chair tips on its legs. They both end up on the floor, Kiran still atop his chest but with his hands knocked loose. Alfonse sucks in great, shuddering breaths, choking and sobbing, his face wet with sweat and saliva and tears.

No-it's a bad idea, a terrible one. Kiran realizes that now as he looks at Alfonse and his bloodied and bruised face and then at his own hands, and they're shaking for some reason, and he's sort of unnerved himself. None of it's real, he reminds himself. He just doesn't want to have to explain to Anna and Sharena and the rest of the army and all of Askr why the prince is dead, why he died on his watch.

"G-good job, Alfonse," he says, rising to his feet, trying to get back into it, but suddenly, it's not as fun anymore. "Doesn't it feel good to get that off your chest?"

Alfonse manages to sit up, and that's when Kiran remembers to untie the cloak, sliding it off his shoulders. There's a smudge of blood on the inside of the collar, and Kiran can't seem to stop looking at it. He helps Alfonse up, and this time, he does hold his hands, supports him on his shoulder when he looks like he's going to collapse again.

"You alright?" he asks him. "You did great, you know." He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore.

Alfonse surprises him by throwing his other arm over his shoulder, tugging at the neck of his shirt as he clings to him. "I killed her," he rasps. "Gods, I killed her. It-it _hurts_."

He breaks down into a fit of coughing and crying, dragging down Kiran's shirt until he's stretching the collar. It's so pathetic a display-and maybe relieving, too, that he seems scarcely worse for wear-that Kiran finds something close to confidence returning to him.

"Yeah," he says, "you did. But it's okay now. She'll understand now." He disentangles Alfonse from him, props his chin up with his fist. "You know I don't want to have to do this to you, right, Alfonse?"

To his credit, Alfonse hesitates.

"Hey, c'mon," Kiran persists. "We're _friends_. Why would I want to hurt you? I hate it. It hurts me, too, you know. Probably even more. But it's _because_ I'm your friend that I'll do _anything_ for you." He looks into his eyes as he says, "Even if it hurts both of us."

Alfonse closes his eyes. "You're the tactician," he says at last. "And also my greatest friend. I... I trust you, Kiran."

Kiran's heart leaps at that, though he can't be certain of the cause of it, if it's remorse or some twisted, possessive pleasure.

He supposes it doesn't really matter either way.


End file.
